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March 2005
Next month:
May 2005


Dear Blog,

Let me just say that the problem isn't you. It's me. I still love you, truly, but right now most of my heart is invested in other things. But soon, soon, this shall pass and I'll be able to devote my time to you again, just like I have done in the past. I'm sorry about the whole thing -- but that's just the way it has to be right now. Hopefully, you will be able to wait for me. If not, I suppose I understand, even though I will be bitterly disappointed.

Soon we shall be reunited,

other Abba songs

Had my Waterloo last night at about 3 a.m. This cold/bronchitis/whatever thing is seriously kicking my ass. Woke up hacking, feverish and with a nasty sore throat, which really isn't all that different than I've felt for the last week but it just keeps getting worse. So, anyway, I got up to pee, because that's what I do with most of my time now, and managed to wake the Diva up while I was blowing my nose post-potty. So I went in with her, to assure her that there weren't big, bad monsters making noises outside her door. Everytime she started to drift back off, I'd start coughing again, which would wake her up. Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually I just gave up and sent the groggy Scott in with her, while I lay on my bed contemplating 3 a.m. things, like all of the stuff I should be doing but can't because I feel like death on toast. Feh. After this long, dark tea time of the soul, I finally drifted back off, where I had dreams about my mother dying in a car crash.

What I really want to know is -- why does the world always look bleakest at 3 a.m.? This seems to be a fairly universal time for dark patches for most folk. I know, really, of only one exception. My former coworker/boss is virtually nocturnal and probably suffers most of his Waterloos at 9 a.m. Of course, he also lives in a city where you can actually get things done in the middle of the night. Opposed, say, to Oneonta, where only Wal-mart, that portal to hell, is only open 24 hours.

Until I fell more interesting and less whiney, two shameless self-promotions. First, a new Austinmama column. Second, a piece I wrote a few years back about Christus Gardens, one of the stranger theme attraction experiences I've ever had. I stumbled across this story while looking for something else and realized that it didn't suck as much as I'd remembered. Scroll about 3/4 of the way down.

Addendum: I finally remembered to set our brand-spanking new DVR up to tape The Daily Show. After a few minutes of John Stewart and Co., I feel a little bit better. Nothing like Pope jokes to give one some perspective -- and all of the laughing seems to have loosened some phlegm.

the trees are actually quite lovely

Currently, we are in hell. This level of the inferno involves a Diva with bronchitis/ear infection/side order of pneumonia and a prescription for steriods, among other things. Have you ever seen an almost three-year-old with 'roid rage? Come on over. It's a blast. Yesterday, after screaming at me to get out of her room, she then demanded I stop breathing because it irritated her. Today, I sent her to day care simply for her own protection. She is more or less well, just really, really, really touchy. And angry. They don't tell you about this stuff in the parenting books. Fuckers.

Also in this particular hell is the Hub, who has the same nasty illness and is trying to go into tech for a show. And, at about 3 a.m. as I was convincing the Diva to stop kicking me and go to sleep already, I noticed that my throat was all scratchy and I was coughing. Woo. Oh, and that I still have a book to finish very soon.

Today my only goal is to write. My hope for the next 48 hours is that I won't have to do any emergency laundry that is stained by some bodily fluid (or, barring that, no more vomit laundry) or practice my meditation while the Diva screams at me for hours on end. I'd also like to spend five consecutive hours asleep in my own bed, but I'm not too fussy on that last bit. I'd love to sleep for five consecutive hours anywhere, at this point.

I can't help but think that this is all some divine retribution for going out of town and sleeping in a nice hotel room. But I'm also getting a little delusional and feverish, so this may be a symptom of that, more than of a latent Catholicism rearing its mitred head.

In other news, a new Saucy column is live. I'll miss Sara Moulton.

quilt lust

The angry chicken has done it again. I want this with enough soul-burning desire to learn how to sew already.

The Diva agrees. She's home today and looking over my shoulder. "I want that," she said. "So do I," I said. "No, I do," she said. "No, I do," she said. You can see how the conversation progressed from there.

The Motrin seems to have kicked in so she's no longer quasi-conscious on the couch and capable of speech. Still, we will be heading to the Dr. at noon, where, hopefully, he will give us some good drugs. Which, frankly, we may not need because the Doodlebops, which keep being teased on the Disney channel, look like a ver, very scary hallucinogenic experience all on their own. Is it just me or are kids' programs getting more and more creepy? Although, now that I think about it, H.R. Pufnstuf was just a tad unnerving as well, but when I was in the target demo, I looooooved it.

shameless self promotion, 204 in a series

A little more about me, then I shall shut the fuck up about me for a bit. I'm tired of me, you know? How are you?

First, new column is live at Bookslut, this one is a collection of a bunch of random things that crossed my desk this month.

Second, this baby-in-waiting seems convinced that it is his duty to kick my spleen on an hourly basis. It is slightly tiresome.

Third, tomorrow is my birthday. Woo. My plan is to spend it writing, then maybe I'll do a load of laundry. Actually, my plan was to spend it on St. Croix surrounded by pool boys, but a lack of time put the kibosh on that. Maybe next year.

shameless self promotion, 203 in a series

I'm back. Did you miss me?

Still digging out from under all of the crap that piled up while I was away. with that came the stunning revelation that I have one month to write 2.5 chapters and do one last run through The Book. Not panic-inducing, but a good kick in the ass. And, so, posting may be more slight than usual. Or not. It just depends, really. But you have been warned.

Before I get back to shoveling the desk off, Jennifer Niesslein and Stephanie Wilkinson have written the definitive piece about moms who write for this month's Brain, Child magazine. For what it's worth, I am quoted, as is my agent and a few writermama friends. Mostly, though, I'm linking because the writers have done a killer job of summing up where the industry seems to be right now.

But it's true that This Generation of Mothers is the first to have grown up with the women's movement of the seventies in progress. At least some of us were told from the get-go that our opinions matter, that our experiences are valid. Growing up with the same sense of entitlement as our brothers has played out in all sorts of well-documented ways (the phrase "they expect to have it all. . ."  comes up often).
One less documented way that today's women's sense of entitlement has played out is in publishing. Really, if football coaches and fishing enthusiasts could pen books about their experiences, why not mothers? And if readers could be compelled by the lives of a rich man and his friends (The Great Gatsby), or a witty, troubled teenage boy (The Catcher in the Rye), for example, why not a woman who raises her kids?

I have been lucky -- and while I am aware of how lucky I have been, I do agree that more of a "fuck- you" attitude seems to be needed right now if we want to continue to have our voices heard. But with that thought, I do have to mention how grateful I am for what I have. It's a double-edged sword, you know?

Thanks to Liz who pointed the article out to me this morning. Now I just have to figure out where to get a hard-copy of the mag in this wee little town.